Falling Apart
by themountainsarecalling
Summary: Sam is starting to get sick but doesn't want Dean to know. He takes a bunch of cold pills to try and hide his symptoms but realizes Dean will know something's wrong if he doesn't drink. The combination results in loopy Sam and caring Dean and Bobby.


The hard, cold glass of the Impala passenger window pressed against his forehead was the first thing to register through Sam's sleep-fogged state. He shifted his head away from the window and pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck.

Dean's thumping music turned down, and he said, "Dude, wake up. Pit stop."

Sam rubbed his eyes with a knuckle as they pulled off the highway to a small gas-and-go illuminated by one flickering street light. "Where are we?" he yawned.

"About an hour from Bobby's. Just gotta fill 'er up." Dean climbed out of the Impala. Sam followed suit and stretched his long limbs. They ached from the confinement of the car. His head ached from sleeping pressed against the window. His throat-Sam winced as he swallowed. _Damn._ He couldn't get sick now, not with Bobby keeping a case warm for them only an hour away. But he already felt like his head was full of wet cement. He sniffled and swiped at his nose with the cuff of his jacket. "I'm gonna run inside, Dean. Want anything?"

"The usual," Dean called from underneath the hood, where he was checking the oil. Sam strode inside. The glare of the fluorescent lights was unusually harsh. Sam put a hand to his forehead and rubbed tiredly as he surveyed the gas station's small selection of cold medicine. He grabbed the box marked Extra Strength. _Just keep your head down. Take a few of these babies, power through, and you'll be fine. And don't let Dean know._ Sam knew that if his big brother suspected anything, he'd be left lying on Bobby's couch with Family Feud repeats while the two of them worked the case. So Sam paid for the pills, a bottle of orange juice, and Dean's Ding-Dongs. He popped two pills out of their blister pack and swallowed them while standing by the counter, his back to Dean outside. He was slipping the pills into his pocket when something on the label caught his eye. _Nighttime Cough and Cold. Damn it again_. Dean would definitely notice if he went into a completely comatose state before they even reached Bobby's. He turned back to the counter and was annoyed that he had to clear his throat before speaking. "On second thought, can I also get a large black coffee?"

Dean was waiting when he went back outside. "Dude, what took so long? I was about to go in armed."

"Very funny." Sam tossed Dean his snack cakes, and Dean caught them and ducked back in the car. "Come on. Let's get rolling."

Headlights flashed through the window, and Bobby heard the well-known engine rumble outside. He went to the door as Sam and Dean climbed out of the Impala. "Howdy, boys," he greeted them as they mounted the porch steps. "How was the drive?"

"Smooth sailing," Dean announced proudly as he gripped Bobby's hand. "Baby's still running like a dream."

Bobby's eyebrows furrowed as he turned to Sam for a handshake. The younger Winchester's face was flushed, and his breathing sounded a bit labored. "How you doin', Sam?"

"Hey, Bobby." Sam met the handshake warmly-a little too warmly, Bobby couldn't help noticing as he touched Sam's skin. He would have liked to raise his hand to Sam's forehead and check for a fever, but he knew Sam would never allow it. He didn't like to tangle with the kid since he grew a head and a half taller than him. "Well, come on in, boys. Dinner's hot and the whiskey's cold."

Bobby filled them in on the case during dinner. "Could be a Wendigo, I guess-all I know is it ain't a bear like the local law keeps saying. No bear could leave people strung up in trees like that." He started to spoon some more chili into Sam's bowl, but paused as he realized it was still full. Sam was staring at it, not seeming to notice Bobby's ladle poised overhead. "Sam?"

Sam jumped as if a gun had gone off. "Huh? Oh-no thanks, Bobby. I'm full."

Bobby lifted an eyebrow at his untouched bowl. "Everything ok, Sam?"

"Yeah-yeah, everything's great. I'm just a little tired."

"Well, you shouldn't be, with that gigantic coffee you had," Dean put in. "I thought you'd be buzzing like a bee hive right about now."

"Long day, I guess." Sam downed the last of his whiskey and stood to carry his bowl to the sink. Dean snagged his whiskey glass and headed to the front room. Bobby took advantage of the chance to follow Sam. The young man was leaning with his palms on the counter, his eyes closed. "You sure you're feeling ok, Sam?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I'm fine." Sam shook his hair back and forced a smile. "Long day in the car, maybe a little headache, but nothing-" his breath caught, and he hurriedly turned and raised his elbow to his face. " _Hurshoo! AAhshoo!"_ He snuffled deeply and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Nothing to worry about." He followed Dean into the living room before Bobby could protest. Bobby followed, muttering, "Yeah, I'm convinced."

Bobby kept the rest of the case recap to a minimum, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sam's head slowly bobbed toward his chest. He promised to fill them in the next morning and suggested an early bedtime. He was relieved when neither brother protested. He didn't say anything when Sam downed another shot of whiskey before heading upstairs, hoping it might help the boy sleep.

Bobby was wakened after just a few hours by a muffled crash downstairs. He grabbed the shotgun he kept by his bed and hurried to the steps.

A soft moan met his ears. He flicked on the light and saw a tangle of long, gawky limbs at the bottom of the stairs. "Sam?" He hurried down.

Sam squinted in the light. "Bobby?" He broke into high-pitched giggles. "You fell down."

"It ain't my ass on the floor right now, you idjit." Bobby seized Sam's hand and tried to pull him up, but the younger man's large frame was too much for him. And Sam didn't seem to be interested in moving at all. Bobby knelt beside him and tried to get an arm around Sam's shoulders. He let out a low hiss as he felt the heat radiating from the young man. "Geez, boy, you're cooking your brains."

"Mm, cooking…" Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the floor. " _You're_ a good cook, Bobby. Know what sounds good? Pudding. Got any pudding?"

"Yeah, ok. Let's just get you back to bed and you can have all the pudding you want when you wake up." Bobby struggled to lift Sam, but he had dissolved into giggles again. "Come on, boy. We gotta get you something for that fever."

"Took something," Sam slurred. "At the gas s'ation. An' some more before bed. Don't tell Dean, though!" He lifted a finger to his lips, his eyes solemn. "'S a secret."

Bobby's mind flashed back to Sam emptying two stiff drinks that evening. "You mean to tell me you mixed that stuff with whiskey?" And hadn't Dean said something about a giant cup of coffee? "You damn moron."

"It worked," Sam said in a deeply affronted tone. "I feel good now." He sighed happily as his eyes rolled up and his eyelashes fluttered. "Reeealllly good…"

"No, nope, no sleeping on the floor. Come on, now." Bobby gave Sam's shoulder a shake.

"Bobby?" Dean was at the top of the stairs. He hurried down when he saw Bobby kneeling next to his brother on the ground. "What happened? Is he ok?"

"Define 'ok'," Bobby grunted. Dean came around to Sam's other side, and between the two of them, they managed to haul Sam to his feet. Sam rocked in place, and Dean put a steadying hand on his chest. "Whoa, easy there, tiger."

"Deeeaaannn!" Sam threw his arms up in happy greeting, then lurched forward with the sudden movement. Dean and Bobby both caught him. Dean looked at Bobby over his brother's lolling head. "What's wrong with him, Bobby?"

"I'd say a bad head cold with a side of fever-not to mention a Johnny Walker-Nyquil cocktail." Bobby peered up the steep flight of wooden stairs. "We'll never get him up there. Let's take him over to the couch."

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean grunted as they half-led, half dragged Sam toward the sofa. "What were you thinking? Cold medicine and booze? Seriously, how'd you get through Stanford?" He groaned as Sam swayed into him. "And why are you the size of a freakin' Honda?"

"Hey, maybe I'm normal-sized and everyone else is just really small. Y'ever think of that?" Sam halted in his tracks. "Whoa. I never thought of that."

"Ok, Tiny. Let's just focus on getting you horizontal." Dean prodded him. Sam suddenly veered off toward the kitchen, but Dean and Bobby steered him back to the couch. "This way, Sammy. Turn around."

"Turn around…" His eyes closed, Sam warbled low and off-key. "Ev'ry now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming 'round..."

"Oh, for the love…" Bobby rolled his eyes as Sam gained momentum. "And I need you now tonight! And I need you more than ever-" He broke off abruptly. "Y' know, Bobby, Dean thinks I need him, but not as much as he needs me. Thass why I couldn't let him hunt alone. He thinks he's gotta take care of me, but I got his back, too. Anything gunning for my brother's gotta come through _me._ "

"Yeah, you're a big ball of dysfunctional, the pair of you." Bobby grunted as they lowered Sam to the couch. Sam sank into the cushions, his eyes still closed. Dean lifted his feet off the ground. "Seriously, Sam? Bonnie Tyler?"

"Pfffft, don' act like you don't love that song. I always hear you singing it in the shower." Bobby raised an eyebrow at Dean, and Dean twirled his finger around his ear, mouthing, "Loopy."

"Dean!" Sam's hand shot up and grabbed the front of his brother's shirt. "I gotta ask you something. 'S really important." He pulled on the shirt until Dean's face was only inches from his own. His eyes were wide and earnest as he said gravely. "Do you...have any...pudding?"

Dean glanced over at Bobby, who shrugged. Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "Ok, Sammy. Sure. We'll get you some pudding." Sam smiled and clumsily patted his brother's cheek. "You're the best tiny brother," he murmured.

"That's right, Gigantor. Just get some sleep." Dean pulled the old afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it over Sam, whose eyes were already drooping, before following Bobby to the kitchen.

Bobby opened a beer and held it out. "You're not dosed up on anything, are you?"

Dean exhaled in frustration and took the bottle. "Seriously, Bobby, what was he thinking? Why didn't he just say he didn't feel good?"

"Would you?" Dean shrugged in response, and Bobby nodded sagely. "It's a little thing called Winchester pride. Been studyin' on it for almost thirty years and haven't figured out how to exorcise it yet."

Dean grinned. "It's a tough one, alright." He glanced back into the living room. Sam's eyes were closed, and the back of his hand rested on his forehead like a prima donna. His lips moved, and a half-whispered strain of song reached them in the kitchen: "Nothing I can do...total eclipse of the ...heart…"

"Hey, Bobby," Dean whispered, "How many hits you think this would get on YouTube?"

Bobby cuffed him on the back of the head. "Idjit."


End file.
